


The Holly King

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Romance, Developing Relationship, F/M, Family Issues, Idiots in Love, Lack of Communication, Meet the Family, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Is Patient, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Molly Hooper, Protective Sherlock, Secret Crush, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn, Use Your Words, aftermath of S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: In which Molly Hooper discovers that the human heart- like any sprig of holly- is evergreen.NSFW Epilogue added- Happy New Year!





	1. The Holly King

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely miabicicletta, so all mistakes are still mine :-)

* * *

**THE HOLLY KING**

* * *

It's the first week in December when Sherlock brings it up.

He's standing at his favourite microscope, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and eyes glued to his samples. A frown-line splits his brow, lips thinned in irritation; He appears to be totally engrossed in his work, but then-

"Are you doing anything for Christmas this year, Molly?"

When she doesn't answer he repeats himself more loudly.

The tone is casual- too casual- for the stiff, straight-backed way he's holding himself and if Molly didn't know better she'd… Almost think him nervous.

Surprised at the question, she looks up from her laptop. "I'll be working," she points out. "As usual, Sherlock." And she turns back to her admin. No family, no children, she always works Christmas and New Years' so that everyone else can spend time with their loved ones.

Sherlock knows that.  _Everyone_  knows that.

"But you could get out of that, surely," Sherlock says, eyes still on his samples. He's started tapping his left foot slightly, a nervous, discordant beat. "This place must owe you time off-"

Not sure where this is going- but unwilling to let the man before her drag her into another  _Holmes Christmas Drama ™_  she pushes away from her desk. Crosses her arms over her chest and shoots him the look she's been practicing for years now.

"What is it, exactly, that you want, Sherlock?" she asks, and if there's more fondness in her tone than she intended, well…

_She supposes she's just not going to dwell on that._

It seems to occur to him that his casual act isn't working and with a slightly sheepish grimace he straightens up from the microscope. Looks at her.

There's something in his expression she doesn't recognise.

"I was just wondering whether you…" He takes a sharp breath. "Whether you would like to accompany me to my parents' this year." The words sound stiff and formal; He says the next very fast. "John and Rosie have been invited, and I thought– That is, I imagined you might–"

She sees where this is going. "Sherlock," she asks gently. "Do you want someone to be there? Since… Since Mary can't be?"

And she smiles sadly, feeling the usual pang of her friend's loss. The harsh twist of knowing that she's here and somebody who really should be—somebody everyone still misses—is not. Of course Sherlock would want a familiar face to help him through that. Of course he'd want a friend to hold his hand.

He blinks at her, that same unreadable expression flitting over his face, but then–

"Yes," he says. "Yes, that– I suppose that would make it easier for everyone."

And he tries to smile, but as so often happens these days it doesn't quite touch his eyes.

_The memory of Sherrinford still hangs over him, however little he likes to admit it._

"Besides, my mother will adore you," he says bracingly perhaps aware of how uncomfortable he sounds. "I promise you'll enjoy yourself: Mummy will feed until you can't move, and ask you all about your work–"

"Not squeamish, eh?"

"You've met two of her offspring," he says. "What do you think?"

At the joke—and her smile—he relaxes somewhat. This time when he smiles at her, it's ever so slightly brighter, and for a moment he's the man she used to know again.

For a moment, Sherrinford never happened at all.

Before she can say more he smirks. Sweeps away from the microscope. Pulls on his coat and loops his scarf around his neck. Though she knows she should not, even after all these years Molly still can't help but appreciate the sight.

 _She pushes down a swift dart of sorrow as she's confronted, once again, by how much she still cares about this man and how…_ _ **differently**_   _he cares about her._

If he notices her appreciation however, he gives no indication (as usual). Suddenly he's back to himself. With an utter lack of self-consciousness he ruffles his curls into wildness before striding towards the door, his samples apparently forgotten, his need for engagement undissipated–

"I'll text you the details," he tosses over his shoulder. "Don't worry about bringing a gift. Having someone new to cook for will be more than enough for Mummy."

And with that he's through the door and out into the corridor, having left her to (once again) clean up the lab after him.

Molly shakes her head to herself and sets about doing so, not sure whether to be touched or irritated or both. She's so intent on her work that she doesn't see Sherlock standing, back to the wall and watching her shyly through the very edge of the glass panels of the Path Lab door.

By the time she looks up he's gone.

* * *

The time off proves surprisingly (suspiciously) easy to arrange, and Molly tries not to feel sorry for whichever one of her colleagues draws the short-straw to replace her.

When she mentions this to Stamford though, he waves her off with a smile.

"You've worked it every year for nearly a decade, Molly," he says. "Go. Enjoy some time off. Sun holiday or something, is it?"

She thinks about her invitation and despite herself, she smiles. "Something like that," she says and Mike is good enough not to push. Or maybe, with her, he's developed a sensible  _don't ask, don't tell_ policy. She's not sure.

_Mike is always so much cannier than people give him credit for._

"I'll only be gone a couple of days. I'm visiting some friends," she tells him. A small laugh. "Well, I'm visiting them by visiting their parents." She clears her throat, tries to calm a slight fluttering in her chest at the thought. "I'm sure it will be fine…"

"Bring Baileys," Mike says sagely, perhaps reading her nervousness. "If there's a mother involved, make sure you bring Baileys." He shoots her a cheeky grin. "And if there's a father involved, bring whiskey. They'll love you forever, I promise."

And he sends her on her way.

 

* * *

Though she's not entirely sure she trusts Mike's judgement on this, she nevertheless finds herself standing on the street outside her house at 10am on Christmas Eve with a bottle of Baileys, nicely wrapped, in one hand and a bottle of Bushmills, also nicely wrapped, in the other.

She's also wearing her best coat and somewhat matching clothes, because…

Because, well, she wants to make a good impression on the Holmeses She'd rather not think about why.

(Or perhaps, more accurately, she'd rather not admit it to herself).

Mycroft's car pulls up at precisely the time he promised and, to her surprise, Sherlock pops out and takes her bags. Puts them in the boot before opening the door of the sleek blue BMW and letting her get in.

She can't help but note that he's dressed up to the nines, too, in the charcoal grey suit and light blue shirt she's particularly fond of.

She wonders if this might be for her benefit and then, as she always does, chases the foolish thought away.

"For you," he says when they're seated, and he hands her a small, somewhat haphazardly wrapped parcel. "Rosie and I did the wrapping," he adds defensively at seeing the way she looks at it. "I'm trying to improve her hand-eye coordination and-"

"It's lovely," Molly interrupts hastily. She's fairly sure she's smiling like an idiot. "I mean, I'm sure it's lovely. I, um, I'm just afraid that I didn't get you anything-"

And she hadn't. Ever since that awful Christmas party all those years ago, the subject of Sherlock Holmes and presents had been strictly off-limits.

He's looking at her like she's mad though.

"Of course you got me something, Molly," he says. "You agreed to come to this family…  _thingy_  with me."

He says the word "thingy," like he's describing a particularly virulent strain of venereal disease and despite herself her smile widens.

"Well if you're sure…" she says tentatively and he waves her off with that magisterial confidence he seems so good at projecting. Takes the gift from her before she can open it and tucks it into her coat pocket, muttering about saving it for later.

"Of course I'm sure," he tells her. "You're doing me a favour, I assure you. You needn't have bought anything for my parents either, though I knew you would." An odd beat. "You're the sort of person that does things like that, Molly."

And he glances at her sideways, his gaze strangely… focussed. He seems to take in her pretty white and red dress and cardie and in a tone which is, again, far too casual to be believable, hazards an innocent, "Would you like to take off your coat? You needn't keep it on. And if you do, you'll end up sitting on your present..."

Though Molly's tempted to point out that it's he who put the gift in a place she might sit on it in the first place, she nevertheless allows him to help her remove her coat. "Yes, I suppose that would be better," she says, earning herself a smile.

He leans over her—far more than seems necessary, frankly—before popping open her seat-belt and pulling the garment back from her shoulders and off. She needs her to raise her bum a little off the seat to get it completely off, something which brings her into even closer contact with him (in fact, her shoulder nearly collides with his nose).

As always, when they're in such close proximity she finds herself hyper-aware of him. His warmth. His…  _thereness._  The tantalizing air of excitement he seems to radiate. This close, she can smell that scent that's just his, there at his throat. Along his shirt collar. It's shampoo and a touch of cologne and the tiniest smidge of iodine, the tang of it sharp and soothingly familiar–

Her eyes meet his and as she blushes he freezes. Instantly she wants to smack herself. She shouldn't still be doing that sort of thing, she knows. Shouldn't still be hoping, no matter what he'd said during that damned phone call.  _She's probably just made an idiot of herself in front of him_. Sherlock, however, doesn't say anything, merely swallows, his throat working as if he wishes to speak.

His eyes drop down to her mouth for a fraction, his tongue darting out to wet his own lips. He ducks his head towards her and it's almost as if…  _Almost as if…_

"Phone call for you, sir," the driver's voice pipes up, and suddenly he moment, whatever it was, is broken.

Molly sees Sherlock's jaw tighten as he pulls away from her, gesturing for the driver to hand him his mobile and if she didn't know better, she'd say he looked annoyed. Really annoyed.

_Not for the first time in their acquaintance, she has no clue what's going on with him._

"I thought I told you not to call me enroute?" he barks into the phone and very distantly Molly hears a man laugh. Murmur something about needing an update, since the Watsons were already "in situ."

"We'll be there as fast as we can, Mycroft," Sherlock bites out. "You can handle Mummy until then. Now I'm going to hang up- Don't call me again. I turned off  _my_ phone for a reason."

Again Molly hears that distant chuckle and then Sherlock ends the call with a vicious tap to the phone's  _End_  button. He hands it back to the driver crossing his arms petulantly across his chest and leaning back in his seat.

"He's just miffed because Mummy's talking to Allie," he mutters.

"Allie?" Molly frowns, something which draws a frankly blood-curdling smile from her companion.

"Lady Alicia Smallwood," he tells her. "Mycroft's new  _girlfriend_."

He says this latter word with such childish glee that Molly rolls her eyes.

For some reason, this sobers him. He clears his throat, shifts in his seat. Suddenly, he seems to be having trouble with eye-contact. "I suppose Mikey just wants someone of his own with him for Christmas," he says more quietly. "Mummy and Daddy are still a bit sore about what happened with Eurus, Having Lady Smallwood there might take the pressure off, a bit."

"Is that why you brought John and Rosie?" she asks and at this he again blinks at her, surprised.

She can't seem to keep up with him today.

"I brought John and Rosie because they were invited," he says. "I brought you because, well…" Suddenly he seems fascinated with the handle of the car door. She's noticed eye-contact is always the first thing to go when he's feeling uncomfortable, but she's no idea why that might be the case here.

"Because I might take the pressure off a bit too?" she asks him hopefully. When he doesn't answer she shakes her head, reaches out and takes his hand. He stiffens, but he doesn't pull away from her. "It's ok to want a friend with you, Sherlock," she says softly.

"Is that what I want?" he asks her, finally looking at her again. "Is that what we are, Molly? Friends?"

He's lowered his voice to match hers.

He's leaning into her again and this time there's no need to help her with a coat to excuse it.

The world seems to freeze.

His eyes flick down to her lips once more. He draws in a breath. The atmosphere in the car is suddenly both close and electric. Charged up. Intense.  _There is so much possibility in this small space._  Molly opens up her mouth—to say what, she's no idea—but before she can do it he suddenly straightens. Pulls back from her.

Once again he's immensely fascinated with the view from his side of the car.

Feeling like she's been hit with whiplash, Molly frowns. Retreats to her own side of the car and ponders what on Earth is going on today-  _What the_ _ **hell**_   _does Sherlock thinks he's playing at?_

She's too much of a coward to push him, though.

And so they pass the rest of the journey in relative silence.

It's only later that she realises he's held onto her coat the whole ride.

* * *

His parents' cottage is like something out of a poster for The National Trust.

It's cosy-looking and pretty, dusted with just the right amount of snow to look picturesque, but not enough to make walking up the main path to the door dangerous. A light-festooned pine tree grows in the front garden and red and yellow decorations deck the door. The windows.

 _It looks so scrumptious it might as well be made of gingerbread,_  Molly can't help but think.

When the car pulls up a white-haired woman with Sherlock's eyes opens the door and bounds out, a tall grey-haired man at her elbow. Their combined likeness to the man beside her tells Molly that these are indeed his parents.

 _So as John Watson had promised,_ Molly muses,  _Sherlock was not, in fact, raised by wolves._

Rosie Watson is sitting on the grey-haired man's shoulders and when she sees her Uncle 'Lock she whoops and demands to be set down. Goes running towards him as fast as her pudgy little legs and the snow will let her.

To Molly's surprise, as soon as he lays eyes on the child Sherlock's odd mood lifts. Indeed, he holds his arms open to her and she swings herself into them with the sort of force that looks like it should knock a person down. Sherlock's merely winded however, and he still picks his goddaughter up, smiling as she babbles her greetings.

When he straightens up, Rosie still in his arms, he turns to show her Molly and again she whoops.

"Auntie Molly!" she calls. "You came!" She twists in Sherlock's arms to look at the elderly couple she'd left at their doorstep. "Nana Lexie and Ganda Sigur," she tells Molly, pointing to them. By this time the older woman has reached her son and his guest and held out her hand in greeting.

"Alexandra," she tells Molly warmly. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear."

"Likewise," Sigur says, shaking Molly's hand once his wife has relinquished it. "We're so delighted that our boy has finally managed to get you up here!" He shoots her a rather raffish smile. "We were starting to think that Will had an imaginary friend."

"Will..?" Molly inquires faintly at the amused snort Rosie lets out. "That's what your mother calls you?"

"I prefer Sherlock," he says shortly.

Mummy Holmes is having none of that, though. "I named you Will," she intones darkly, "and Will you shall remain."

As mother and son begin goodnaturedly bickering, Sigur walks around to the BMW boot and- with the help of the driver- opens it. He takes out Molly's bags.

"Good call on the Baileys," he winks, then begins to lead her inside as the car pulls off. Sherlock and his mother are still arguing, little Rosie occasionally offering encouragement to one or the other as they manoeuvre up the garden path. The front door is opened by John in a  _Kiss The Cook_  apron and Molly can't help her grin.

As soon as they all set foot in the hall, however, Sherlock stops dead.

Seemingly without noticing, he moves in front of her.

He's looking- no,  _staring_ \- at the wall of family photos in front of him, and at a photo of a small, dark-haired girl in pigtails and a pinafore in particular.

His hands are fisting together in rage.

Molly looks between he and his parents. "She's your sister, Will," his mother is saying. "I know she can't come home to us, but she's still my daughter and I needed to-"

"Do you have any idea what she  _did_?"

And Sherlock speaks over his mother, his face contorted in anger. Turns to her, setting Rosie down so that she can run over to hide behind her father's legs.

It seems the child is- miraculously- unfamiliar with Uncle 'Lock's temper.

Sherlock's father moves to stand protectively beside his wife.

Not sure what's going on, Moly reaches out for Sherlock but he jerks back. Shakes his head at her. He seems determined to keep between her and the image and she's not sure why.

"I told you Molly was coming," he snaps at his mother. "I told you she'd be here, and you, you... Do you have any idea what Eurus  _did_ to her?"

And without waiting for his mother to reply he stalks over to Molly. Takes her elbow and starts leading her towards the door, even as his mother's talking. This might be the most upset that Molly has ever seen him. "We're not staying," he says shortly. "I'll get your coat and we'll-"

"Sherlock," Molly says softly, coming to a halt. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

And she places her hands on his lapels, stopping him in place. He blinks at her, as if unable to compute the reaction. When he looks at her she steps in closer and lowers her voice; He seems to find that calming.

"I can see that you're trying to keep me from something," she tells him quietly, "but to be honest, I don't know what from."

"From her." And he tosses his head belligerently towards the photo of the little girl.

He may not notice it, but he draws closer. Hunches himself over her more.

"That's a photograph, Sherlock," Molly tells him gently. "It can't hurt me, you know that." She strokes one hand down to his arm, trying to soothe him: She can feel him nearly vibrating beneath her fingertips. "Nothing I've seen so far is hurting me..."

"It could." And his throat works, emotion teeming through him so much it seems to stop his words. He twists his hands together and Molly can see it, just what this is doing to him. It makes her heart twist in her chest. "That's my sister," he tells her, lowering his voice. "That's Eurus- The one who put bombs in your house. The one who made me-"

And this time his voice does cut off, because they never, ever talk about That Phonecall.

They never have. Molly had assumed they never would do.

It was John who explained about the plot to hurt her and Eurus' blackmail. In the year since it happened, Sherlock has mentioned it so little that Molly honestly thought he might have deleted it-  _Hoped, maybe, he had done.-_

Apparently she was wrong about that, though. For at the mention of it he pulls her to the side, leans in to whisper in her ear. He seems not to want any distance between them and Molly can't conjure why.

"She hurt you," he says, and he sounds so… helpless. "She hurt you, and I didn't stop her. I wanted to, but I couldn't. You shouldn't have to look at her now-"

"That's not the woman who hurt me, Sherlock," Molly says gently. "That's a photograph of your sister. That's who she was, long before me. Of course your Mum wants her photo in your house."

He goes to interrupt and she speaks over him. "I'm not frightened of it," she tells him. "I'm not upset, I'm not. I promise, I'm not. But if you are, we can do something about it, we can put it away or something. But we don't have to leave, and you don't have to protect me."

And to his evident surprise, Molly takes a risk.

She moves closer to him and, making sure to gauge his reaction, moves her arms to rest loosely about his waist.

It's not quite an embrace, but then it's not  _not_  an embrace either.

Sherlock must understand the message because- watching her equally carefully- he mirrors her actions. Lets his arms come to rest around her waist.

The weight of them is warm. Comforting.

"Are you sure?" he asks, and his voice is so quiet. He's watching her so closely.

She nods, trying to ignore the fact that his entire family is pretty much staring at them, a shrewd, knowing look in his father's eyes that she suspects indicates that the older man has gotten entirely the wrong end of the stick.

Sherlock doesn't say the words sorry but he looks at his mother and, though he might not apologise, she nods to him. Smiles tightly.

Holding Molly's hand Sherlock follows his parents into the kitchen.

He doesn't let her out of reach the entire dinner.


	2. The Oak-Hearted Queen

_Disclaimer_ : This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**THE OAK-HEARTED QUEEN**

* * *

The first indication that all may not be well comes after dinner, when everyone's finishing up their brandies, baileys or (in Rosie's case) cocoa.

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, announcing that they are tired, inform the room that they will set out to something called The Gatehouse, where they will be sleeping. Mrs. Holmes- with the lack of subtlety her son has clearly inherited- informs them that they can, "make as much noise as they want up there, so they should."

She winks at them, making Allie- Lady Smallwood- grin. (Mycroft looks faintly nauseous).

At this news Sherlock starts. Shoots a sharp look at both of his parents, though neither meet his eye. A few moments later, as Mycroft and Allie are leaving, Molly notices Sherlock and his father arguing quietly under the stairs, and the way they both glance furtively at her before walking away tells her that she had been the subject of their conversation.

Unsurprisingly, it makes her feel uneasy.

Shortly after this John takes Rosie to the guest-room to sleep, thanking both the Holmeses profusely for the use of their crib since he hasn't a travel one.

"Think nothing of it," Mrs. Holmes says. A soft, almost-sad smile flits across her face. "Like so many things in this house, John, it's about time the old dear was taken out of storage."

Though John looks slightly uncomfortable with the realisation that he may have just put his daughter down in the crib in which Eurus Holmes first slept, he nevertheless manages to smile and, with a pat to Sherlock's shoulder, make his way up the stairs-

All of which leaves Sherlock, Molly and the Holmeses standing there, staring at one another.

Mr. Holmes has a glint in his eye which his son seems to find quite annoying.

"Well, that's me done for the night, old thing," he announces to his wife, making a show of yawning and gesturing for her to join him on the stairs. "I trust you can show Molly the sleeping arrangements, Will?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his father. "I don't believe I have much choice, do I?"

Mrs. Holmes raps his sharply on the knuckles. "Don't speak to your father that way," she tells him. Her tone turns almost apologetic as she points out that, "there's no way Mikey could have slept under this roof, not after…"

She sighs, looks away.

Her gaze is drawn to the photo of Eurus in the hall, the one which had so upset Sherlock earlier, and Molly thinks she understands.

_Mycroft, after all, lived longer with Eurus and her terrors than his brother._

"Besides," Mrs. Holmes says, some of her bravado returning. "Mikey and Allie require some privacy. You and Molly, on the other hand, are not in a relationship, are you?"

She looks at her son shrewdly and to Molly's surprise, Sherlock's cheeks redden.

He says nothing.

"That's what I thought," she says, before turning her smile to Molly. "Such a pleasure to have you with us, my dear," she says warmly. "I do hope you'll be comfortable with the sleeping arrangements- We're a little tight but, well, I suppose needs must."

And with that she presses a kiss to both Molly and Sherlock's cheeks before heading upstairs with her husband, the two arm in arm and giggling together like two teenagers. The look on Sherlock's face is mutinous but he says nothing. Merely sighs and rakes a hand through his curls, setting them askew.

Molly looks at him askance. "What was all that about, then?"

He grimaces. "I rather fear my parents have gotten the wrong end of the stick about us, Molly." He glares up the stairs after them. "The reason I wanted to stay in the Gate House is that, well, there are two bedrooms in the Gate House." His frown turns darker. "Here in the Gamekeeper's Lodge, on the other hand, there's only three. One for my parents, one for John and Rosie-"

"And one for you and me," Molly finishes for him. "Oh-  _Oh."_

Now it's her turn to redden.

Sherlock's cheeks can match her.

"But we've shared a bed before," she says, trying to lighten the moment. "Not in a while-" ( _not since before Mary's death, actually_ ) - "but we have done it. I'm sure we'll muddle through."

"You think so?"

Sherlock's turned to look at her, the expression on his face not one she likes.

It's the one that tells her he's deducing her.

Molly refuses to rise to the bait. "Definitely," she says, raising her chin. "We're not a pair of teenagers- We can get through one night in the same bed." A thought occurs. "Besides, if you give me any trouble, I'll just kick you out and take all the blankets."

Sherlock's lip ticks up into an unwilling smile. "You'd do that to me?"

"In a heartbeat," she tells him. "After all, turnabout is fair play."

He looks sharply at her, some of the colour draining out of his face. His body language stiffening until the cheerful, friendly warmth which has been between them all night vanishes.

Suddenly the hallway seems very cold.

"Yes," he says distantly. "Yes, I suppose turnabout  _is_  fair play."

Awkward now, he gestures towards the stairs; Molly follows with a frown.

* * *

When they get to the landing he stiffly tells her to go to the door on her right, the one with  _Keep Out_  scrawled across it in tipex. (There is also a tipex skull and crossbones, just in case anyone missed the point).

She does as she's told, opens the door: inside she sees a narrow bed, bookshelves, a wardrobe. A music-stand, clearly set for someone a great deal shorter than Sherlock,dog-eared sheets of music still on its frame. Messily-drawn pictures, some in ink, some in charcoal, are blue-tacked or sellotaped to the walls.

In some places the wallpaper has had chemistry equations scribbled on it in biro.

An ancient-looking radiator is sitting in the middle of the room, pumping out a desultory amount of heat as Sherlock shuts the door behind them. He tries the lights, only to swear when nothing happens.

Immediately he starts hunting through the bottom of the wardrobe.

"I suppose it will have to be candle-light then," he mutters under his breath. "Just bloody brilliant."

Molly's not entirely sure why he's so annoyed but rather than get in his way she comes inside. Sits down on the bed. Her overnight bag has already been placed to one side and, ignoring Sherlock, she takes it. Puts it on the duvet and starts searching through it for her pyjamas.

She notes, somewhat distantly, that her coat is hanging on the back of the door, her present from Sherlock sticking out of her pocket.

For a moment she ponders opening it but one look at her irritated companion convinces her she should wait for the morning.

Suddenly a match flares in the darkness and then a candle is lit. An old-fashioned, hand-held candle-holder appears beside her, Sherlock's pale face behind it.  _He looks like a ghost._ Nervous because of his proximity, not meaning to react, she yanks her hand out of her bag, taking a rather colourful, lacy bra with her, and to her surprise she again sees that look from today in the car cross his face.

His eyes widen.

His tongue darts out to lick his lip.

Red darkens in his cheeks, gaze focussing on her.

Almost unwillingly, it seems, he's leaning into her and though she knows she's being ridiculous Molly feels herself warm at the realisation. The wanting of it. The sweetness of it.

_Suddenly they're close, so much closer than they usually get…_

She fists her hands together and the lace of the bra digs into her fingers, Self-consciousness, that oldest and most familiar of foes, rears its head at the sensation:  _What the Hell does she think she's doing?_

"What?" she asks, in a tone which is far more defensive than she was aiming for.

He says nothing, merely continues to stare at her.

As if without thinking, his free hand twitches towards her before clenching. Coming back to rest at his side. With sudden resolution he turns from her. All but slams the candle-holder down on the bedside locker before striding across the room and starting to dig, somewhat pointedly, into his own overnight bag.

Molly watches, wondering what the hell is going on. It feels like they've had an argument, though they've barely said a word.

He tosses socks and clothes over his shoulder in a messy heap, muttering to himself as he divests himself of his jacket and shoes. After a moment he snaps something about going out to change, his pyjamas in a bundle under his arm, but when he goes towards the door Molly stands in front of it. Blocks it with her body.

Whatever is going on, she wants it sorted out before they go to bed; he'll fuss like a toddler if they don't.

"Sherlock," she says, and she can hear the testiness in her voice, "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

He glowers down at her, jaw jutting. Belligerent. When this fails to move her he leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. Opens his mouth to start what will clearly be an unpleasant deduction, but Molly's having none of it. She reaches out her hands as she had this morning. Lays them lightly around him.

Just as it had this morning, it seems to calm him- _Or maybe it's just wishful thinking on her part._

Nevertheless, he doesn't open the door, merely stares down at her with that same inscrutable look on his face.

"I'm confused," she tells him. "Can you understand that?"

He nods slowly. Steps away from her.

Suddenly he looks rather… unsure of himself.

He shakes his head as if confused, paces hurriedly across the floor, raking his hands through his curls before moving back to stand in front of her. He opens his mouth to speak, once, twice, but (just as Molly is about to demand that he say  _something_ ) he reaches across her and removes her present from her coat pocket. Thrusts it into her hands.

"Just open it, alright?" he says. "Please." This last is added as an afterthought.

Before she can answer he's already stalked back to the bed. Sat himself sullenly down on it.

He's staring at her lacy bra, discarded against the duvet, as if it were a snake.

Molly's not impressed with being ordered, but she knows Sherlock well enough to know that they'll get nowhere unless she does as he tells her. So she turns her attention to the package in her hands, tears roughly at the shiny red paper and tosses it away. Inside she finds a dark wooden box with her initials embossed on it in brass. There's a catch but she soon figures it out. Pops it open.

Inside she sees a scalpel.

It's an elegant thing. Shining. New.

Her initials are engraved, tiny and barely legible, into the blade at its base.

She picks it up and as she does so she realises that it must be one of a kind. Made for her. The blade is perfectly weighted for her, the handle perfectly carved to fit in her fingers.

"I took photos," Sherlock's voice pipes up suddenly. He sounds defensive. "With my phone. That and hand measurements when you weren't looking- Sabine wouldn't take the commission without them."

And he turns his attention back down to the bedspread. Crosses his arms.

Molly stares down at the scalpel. It's… beautiful.  _Perfect, in fact_. "You had this made for me?" she asks. "You had this… It was made  _just_ for me?"

_She thinks, but doesn't add, that it probably cost him a fortune._

"Yes." Again the words are directed sullenly down towards the bed-spread. "Yes, I-" He takes in a sharp breath, and Molly has the distinct impression that he was about to say something else, but- "I wanted to give you something as… as fine as you are," he says instead. "Something as unique. Something as valuable."

"Thank you." Touched, Molly holds the scalpel to the light, watches as it reflects the candlelight.

_It really is the most lovely gift_.

So intent is she on it that she doesn't notice the note which sits at the bottom of the scalpel box until it flutters out. When she sees it she reaches down to pick it up and Sherlock suddenly lurches off the bed. Goes to snatch it up before she can see it.

She's too quick for him, however.

She turns it over, sees the message in his familiar, near-illegible scrawl:  _Dearest Molly, Love Sherlock xxx_

She looks up at him sharply, feeling as if all the air has been snatched from her lungs.

_Suddenly, suddenly she's back at that long-past Christmas Party in Baker Street._

_Suddenly, suddenly, she's feeling awful and it's as if the last year, as if That Phonecall, never happened at all._

He's staring, with remarkable determination, at a spot over her shoulder, both of them trying to pretend that he's not stiff as a board and she's not mere seconds away from hyperventilating.  _Molly can't help but feel they're being terribly, terribly British about this._ "Three kisses indicates romantic attachment," he says quietly and at the words Molly lets out an involuntary little, "oh!" Walks over to him before stopping suddenly, about a foot from him, and walking back to the door. Then changing her mind and walking back over to him, only coming to a halt when he rises. Takes her hands and pulls her gently towards him.

He takes the scalpel from her and places it on the windowsill beside him as she stops in front of him. Stares up into those quicksilver eyes.

"So you..?"

She can't make herself finish the question.

She's not even sure what the question  _is_.

_He couldn't- He couldn't_ _ **seriously**_   _be saying-_

Perhaps understanding, this time Sherlock lets go of her hands. Places his arms around her in a similar, loose embrace to the one she'd used on him earlier. When he speaks to her now, his voice is very soft. Very gentle.

_It belatedly occurs to Molly that a gentle Sherlock Holmes might be the most lethal thing in the world._

"Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment," he tells her. "The expense of the object indicates wi- Indicates the seriousness of the relationship, or rather, the proposed relationship, in our case."

And he reaches down. Haltingly, as if asking permission, lays his forehead on hers. She leans into him, breathing him in."I told John that once," he says, and his voice is almost disbelieving. "It was a deduction… I never believed that it would apply to me…"

"But it does?"

Molly knows her voice is faint but she can't help it **;** He nods, once, very certainly.

"It does.  _I. Love. You._ " And he places a swift, fleeting kiss upon her forehead. Then her cheek. His arms tighten around her.

To Molly's surprise, she can hear how sharp his breathing has become and she knows her own matches it.

They just stand there together like idiots for what feels like a very long time.

"So now do you see why I didn't want to have to share a bed with you?" he asks eventually, and though he's asking her a question he pulls her closer. Buries his nose in her hair.

The next words are muffled.

"Stupid bloody Daddy, having to make a thing of it," he says.

Molly frowns, surprised. "But wouldn't you  _want_ to share a bed then?" she asks. "Surely, if you're interested in me then you would want to-"

"Not if," he interrupts firmly. "No ifs. I am interested in you, I just-"

And he takes a deep breath. Makes himself say the next words so that they come out all squished together. "Iloveyou," he says again and this time she can't help it, she smiles. Suddenly, his own smile matches hers: It's so lovely that it steals her breath. "But…" He takes her hand. Presses it flat against his chest.

She can feel his heart hammering.

"It won't be sex with you," he says quietly. "It won't be shagging, or bonking, or having it off, or any other asinine euphemism John might come up with. No, it will be...  _us._  It will be different, because it will be us. Do you understand?"

And he sighs. Shakes his head in frustration, perhaps because he can see she doesn't.

Suddenly all Molly wants is to make it easier for him, but she doesn't know how.

"This is my chance," he tells her. "It's you, and I love you. I've loved you for a long time, I know that now. After Eurus, after realising just how much I'd cut off, or repressed, or refused to see, I don't want to hide from things anymore.

"But you're already inside…. You're already inside my defences. You're already inside  _me_. Acting on what I feel, making it a reality… It will take time. I  _need_ it to take time. Because it's you, and if it's you it's bloody important."

And he closes his eyes. Leans his forehead on hers again. When she looks at him she sees emotion, swirls and gales and whispers of it. He's practically humming with the energy of it, the power, animated in a way she's only ever previously seen him at a crime scene.

Understanding clicks into place, as it always does for Molly with him: He doesn't know how to do this, she thinks, and he doesn't know how to explain it. He's entirely out of his depth, his comfort zone, and he's looking for an anchor. He's looking for a way to be certain in an ocean of anxiety, and Molly understands how that feels-  _Oh, she understands it._

So, rather than say anything, she wraps her arms more tightly around him. Leans more surely into him.

Rather than saying anything, she reaches up on her tiptoes and presses a single, soft, chaste kiss upon his lips before nudging her nose with his. Smiling at him.

"I love you too, in case you were wondering," she tells him. Another kiss, pressed to his jaw this time. "And while I can see you're worried… Waiting is fine."

Sherlock blinks at her, looking at her in surprise, but before he can say anything she kisses him again. Then again, and again. She doesn't want to give him time to worry, to get wound up. She doesn't want anything unpleasant stealing into this thing between them. By the third kiss, he decides to cooperate and oh but he is a man who knows how to kiss-  _In fact, despite the current evidence Molly thinks he might be a bloody natural at it-_

Eventually they have to break apart, breathless, and when he looks at her she smiles. Presses a kiss to his cheek before taking his hand and pulling him towards the bed.

When he protests she shakes her head. "We're not going to do anything, if you don't want to," she tells him firmly.

He cocks a rather skeptical eyebrow at her.

"We're not," she says, trying to calm him. Trying to calm herself.  _Maybe,_ she thinks _, he's not the only one who needs time._  "You're not that irresistible, Sherlock," she tells him and at this he smiles though it still looks skeptical, the git.

Nevertheless, he allows her to open the covers. Lay him down.

Nevertheless, he twines their fingers together and invites her to lie down with him.

"I trust you," he tells her. "I've always trusted you."

And he kisses her again. Breathlessly. Passionately. He's still in his trousers and shirt but with a smile she fetches his pyjamas. Helps him into them. They both blush once again when it becomes obvious he's not wearing any underwear, just as he does when he helps her out of her dress and into her little night shirt and shorts. To Molly's amusement- and surprise- he averts his eyes as she pulls off her bra before pulling the shirt over her head.

She's touched by the gesture, one she wouldn't have expected from him. Once that's done they lie down next to one another, the covers pulled over them, and Sherlock blows out the candle. Lays there in the dark.

She can just about make him out, all curls and glittering eyes in the dimness of the room.

"So what happens now?" he says, and in answer she finds his hand. Pulls it under the covers and sets it at her hip.

His fingertips are calloused and pleasant against her skin.

Her own snakes across his waist, fingers just barely touching his back; He mumbles that it tickles and at that they both grin again. Kiss again. When they pull apart Molly knows she's grinning like an idiot. They stay like that, face to face in the dark until eventually, with a soft sigh, Molly moves closer and nuzzles into him. Though she can still feel him trembling slightly she does nothing else, and eventually he calms down. Eventually he falls asleep beside her.

In his arms, possibly still in shock, she soaks in the warmth of him. He still smells of cologne and shampoo and iodine, and it's that familiar scent which soothes her into slumber.

Her scalpel glitters in the pale moonlight as the garden outside is slowly blanketed in snow and Molly's last conscious thought is how lucky she's been, to receive two Christmas presents tonight.

* * *

They'll wake up early the next day and they'll kiss. They'll caress. They'll explore one another.

They'll wake up the next day, and Sherlock will be a little more comfortable while Molly will be a little more believing. A little more adventurous.

They will both accept that they're at the start of something new.

So in the wan light of Christmas morning they'll experiment with this… something between them. They'll try it on for size. For shape. For taste.  _It will soon become obvious that they were made for it_. Molly will tell him her secrets. Her hopes. The soft, bruising feelings she's kept from him. Sherlock will tell her of his regrets. His promises. The way he feels about her. He'll explain all the new memories and old regrets and unexpected things he has bubbling away inside him.

He'll give them into her keeping and she'll promise to keep them safe.

Unseen, when he's in the shower Molly will pocket his note:  _Dearest Molly, Love Sherlock xxx_

She'll smuggle it home inside her phone-case, her gift nestled in her lap as she holds Sherlock's hand on the way back home.


	3. Little Christmas

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. A small, slightly NSFW epilogue to  _The Holly King_. In Ireland, Little Christmas is known as  _Nollaig na mBan_  or Women's Christmas. Just sayin'... Enjoy!

* * *

**LITTLE CHRISTMAS**

* * *

_She said yes._

_Sherlock's still slightly shocked, but She. Said. Yes._

At the thought he smiles to himself. Turns on his side to look at her. In the pale light of Christmas Day Molly is sleeping softly beside him.

Warm.

Present.

Perfect.

A swell of affection washes through him and he slides his palms-  _his calloused fingers would wake her_ \- across the sweet, soft expanse of her back. Her hip. He buries his nose in the softness of her hair, the tresses curling almost possessively up to tickle his cheeks. She murmurs in her sleep, smiling, and despite himself, he beams.

"Oh," he whispers, " oh, but you are a lucky bastard, Sherlock Holmes."

As if in answer, Molly shifts in the bed. Curls more tightly against him.

One little arm hooks around his waist, as if trying to keep him near her.

Sherlock inhales in pleasure, continues stroking her bare hip. The small of her back where her sleep-shirt rides up. The warmth of her, the softness, is quite unlike anything he's ever felt before: In the sexual adventures of his youth, the jagged edge of reality had had to be softened by inebriation. The danger of hurt had been completely absent, because he had never been emotionally close to any of his sexual partners and had therefore been safe. Safe.

_Even back then, deep down he'd always wanted to feel safe._

But in this moment, with Molly, he is completely sober and utterly close. Neither of his preferred protections are available to him; he is utterly vulnerable. At the thought he frowns, the old, habitual fear rising in him and instantly he leans down again. Buries his nose once more in her hair, the skin of her throat, his hands splaying across her perfect, soft body, trying to bury the feeling-

"You OK?" she mumbles sleepily, eyes opening.

The unintentionally sultry look she shoots him makes his cock twitch in his smalls.

_How many times has he pictured her looking at him like that in the last year?_

"Yes," he says roughly, remembering only too well their conversation from last night. Sex isn't what he wants, he reminds himself, not yet.  _He promised her that._  What he wants for now is closeness. Time. Enough affection and reassurance to take the blade's edge from his let him become suitably ensconced in this brave new world of their being together before can he muck it up or run for the hills, or worse yet, hurt 's the only thing he can conjure that might work as well for that as callousness or the drugs, so that's what he requested.

_And yet..._

"You are beautiful," he says softly, reverently, and to his delight she blushes, eyes shining. Lip bitten. He feels her hand reach out, touch his cheek. His lips. Her breath fans his face; he can feel the heat of her breasts and legs, tantalisingly close beneath their blankets, still discernible through the layers of clothing and bed-sheets...

 _Such thoughts_ , he muses wryly,  _do not help one feel any calmer, even as he tries to bring himself under control._

"You're beautiful too," she says. "I mean, you're, um..." And she laughs in embarrassment. Buries her face in his chest. It's instinct for Sherlock: he wraps his arms around her. Buries his face in her hair as he smiles at her reaction and she tickles him in retaliation, the pair of them jostling in the bed-

 _It's such a strange new feeling_ , he thinks,  _being able to laugh in bed with someone you love._

"Sorry," she murmurs eventually and he doesn't know what she's sorry about but he doesn't care: He cuddles her closer to him anyway. She lets out a pleased sigh, shifts, moving them so that he's on his back and she's leaning on his chest. She grins down at him, hair tussled and cheeks still red, and then she kisses him so slowly and achingly that by the time they pull apart he finds he can't breathe.

_He finds he doesn't want to._

"Christ..." he mutters, head dropping back against his pillow.

"Are you OK?" she asks again and he nods. Pulls her back down to him.

When his arms wrap around her this time, she feels small and vital against his chest.

She responds in kind, holding him closer, her tongue slipping gently along his lips and then into his mouth when he opens for her, her legs tangling with his until her knee comes to press intently against the bulge of his erection. Nudging it. Massaging it.

"Fuck," he hisses and this time her eyes are soft. Aroused. Hungry.

"Good?" she asks and he nods. Kisses her deeply.

He has to reach down to stop her and her mischeivous little knee before he comes in his smalls like a schoolboy.

So he grabs her, holds her knee still, though he can't help the urge to pull it higher on his waist-  _That is better._

With a grin she shifts so that now she's entirely on top of him, her thighs on either side of his hips. Her mound pressing wetly against his belly. The shock of it is warm and firm and welcome, so welcome that he tightens his grip on her leg and she moans. Nods and bites her lip. All that does is make him even harder; His hands, quite without his meaning them to, splay across her bottom, the flesh of her arse filling his palms to perfection-

He squeezes and this time its her turn to moan. "Mm hmm," she says, eyes fluttering closed, head dropping in pleasure. She rolls her hips against him. "So good," she mumbles. "So good when you do that, love..."

And she starts peppering sweet, butterfly kisses across his throat and chest as he kneads and massages her. The little noises she makes cause him to become ever harder- Ever more aroused. Hands come up to tangle in his hair and as she tugs slightly he lets out a gasp. Bucks his hips up against her involuntarily, his hands digging painfully into the flesh of her backside.

 _They have to stop this now,_ he thinks.  _They have to stop immediately-_

He loosens his grip on her; She pulls away- "Do you want to stop?" and he nods although he's not entirely sure he wants to. "It's so good," he moans and she smiles in pride at hearing him say it.

_It makes him oddly proud, that he could have pleased her so._

"I just-"

"You need time," she says, though if she's repeating his words or reminding herself of them he's not sure. "I promised you time," she adds, and this time he can hear the uncertainty in her voice. There's a question in it. He's not used to someone asking if he's alright, just as he's not used to wanting someone to ask that.

And yet, with Molly, he finds he wants both. So he kisses her soundly before depositing her back on her side next to him.

"I'm alright," he tells her. "I just... I just..."

He laces their fingers together and she kisses each one of his knuckles lovingly.

It makes his skin sing.

"I just don't want us to get carried away," he says. "I need to-" She kisses her again and again her little hands come up. Tangle in his hair. Her tongue sliding gently against his in lazy, teasing pleasure.

He takes her hands, locks their fingers together again before pressing them down into the mattress beside her. Shifting so that his weight is pinned against her breasts.

"Naughty little thing, aren't you?" he says and she nods. He looks down at her, a momentary worry flitting through him. She seems so intent... "Is it odd?" he asks. "Is it... I mean, are you disappointed that I'm not up for it yet?"

Instantly her expression gentles. Softens. She shakes her head.

When she kisses him this time, it's chastely sweet.

"There's nothing wrong with it, or you," she tells him, and he can hear it in her voice that she believes that. She's not just pretending. "And I'll wait as long as you want. I just... I suppose I get carried away too," she tells him. "After all, I've wanted you forever."

He smiles. Lays his forehead on hers.

He can't look at her when he says this next, he has to close his eyes.

"You can have me forever," he tells her. "Just... slowly. Piece by piece. Day by day." A smile tugs his lip. "And not using your womanly wiles on my manly particulars, alright?"

He feels her nod. Kiss him.

"I like the sound of that," she tells him softly. "I like that a lot." Her nose strokes gently along his and she sighs. "Sorry if I pushed too hard, there."

"There's nothing to be sorry about: I want you to be happy." He looks down at her. "But sex won't be on the table for a while, so... I mean..." He loathes speaking like this but he must, for her sake. "Will you be alright, without it?"

"Will I cope without it?" He nods, and his expression must convey how seriously he takes her acquiescence because Molly cocks her head. Looks up at him. She's started running her little foot along his calf and it's rather... soothing.

The look in her eyes though, makes Sherlock a little apprehensive.

"When you say you want to wait, what do you want to wait for?" she asks.

He blinks down at her. "Sex," he says, as if that's the most obvious thing in the world, and for him, it is.

_The sensation of being buried inside the love of his life is more than he can handle right now- And, possibly, in the foreseeable future._

"But what sort of sex?" she asks, nudging him. "Kissing? Being naked? Using your hands or mouth on me? Having me use my hands or mouth on you? Intercourse-?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, imagines all of those things. There are some which are rather more... overwhelming to imagine than others and he tells her so.

When he opens his eyes to look at her, he sees understanding there.

"So it's the overwhelming stuff we need to work our way up to?" She asks softly. He nods. To his surprise and delight she pulls him to her breast as she's speaking. Lets him lay his head there."And are there small things we can start with, that might help with that?" She kisses his hairline. His lips. "Are there things we can start off with?" A small smile tugs at her lip. "Just so I can keep me hand in, so to speak?"

He blinks up at her, surprised. A thought- or rather, a fantasy- pops into his head. One of his oldest, his first. It makes him slightly embarrassed to even mention it, but if he can't tell it to Molly then who can he tell?

"I've always wondered," he says softly, and then stops. She looks at him encouragingly, and he forces himself to try again. "I've always wondered... what you looked like naked." Her eyes widen in surprise. "I mean, you've gotten to see me, but I've not gotten to see you-

"Could we... Could we do something about that?"

And he looks away. Waits. She shifts beneath him, her pupils dilating. Apparently she likes that notion- A lot. "Have you ever pictured me?" she asks him, even as she takes his hands and brings them to her shirt. Motions for him to pull it off.

He does so, tossing it into a corner, and suddenly she's bare in front of him.

Her breasts, small and pert and brown-nippled, are every bit as beautiful as he imagined they'd be.

"I used to," he murmurs, his own breathing becoming heavy as he takes in the sight before him-  _Christ, his Molly's beautiful-_

"Did you used to think about me when you touched yourself?" she asks and he nods again, breathless. Aroused. She's taken his hands down to her sleep-shorts, urged him to pull them off too, and he does.

Now her soft, sweet little mound is bared in front of him.

He can smell- He can smell that she's aroused, wet, and it makes him hard, realising it's for him.

Slowly, calmly, she lays herself back, kicking away the bedclothes. The early morning light bathes her skin in gold, her hair in copper. "Is this... Do you like what you see?" she asks and he nods. Leans in and breathes in the scent of her. Her hands come up to cup his head, to stroke his nape, and he moves so that now he's kneeling between his feet. Looking down at her.

He presses a little kiss to her arch. Then one to the back of her knee. "You're so lovely, Molly..." he murmurs.

He sees her smile, sees some of the tension go out of her at his words. It makes him feel oddly... connected to her, to be reminded that she has insecurities and worries of her own. That she's not the only one who's learning this new thing between them.

"Really?" she asks. "You think I'm beautiful?" He nods. Starts touching her, his fingers sliding up her calves, along her feet. Her skin trembles wherever he strokes her. "Is this alright?" he asks, suddenly remembering that he hadn't explained what he wanted. "Is this- Can I touch you?"

"Do you want to touch me?"

The question is faint, her cheeks reddened.

Again he feels that wave of connection as he realises that she's just as reticent about some things as he is.

"Yes," he says, very certainly, and he tries to pour every ounce of feeling he has for her into his voice. Tries to reassure her. If this thing between them is to work then he will have to be honest, he knows that.

_Besides, he doesn't like the thought that she imagines him unwilling in this._

"I want to touch you all over," he says quietly. "You legs, your feet-"

"My breasts?" There's a hopeful something in her voice and he nods. Moves up onto his knees so that he can lean over her.

"What do you want?" he asks, and if his voice isn't quite steady, well, hers isn't either. "Do you like it-?"

"Like this." She holds her hands out to him. Takes him by his wrists. Brings his hands to her soft, sweet little tits and shows him how she likes to be touched. _It feels so bloody good_. Sherlock frowns, concentrating: It's the undersides, not the nipples which give her the most pleasure, it seems. She doesn't like to be pinched or tweaked but rather kneaded. Lifted and palmed. He doesn't suck her nipples but he kisses them. Nuzzles them. She's so beautifully responsive, her moans growing louder, chest flushed. Spine arching. She digs one of her heels into the bed, pushing herself up into him and suddenly, without any warning, she gasps. Shudders.

With a shock Sherlock realises she's come, just from his touching her.

She flops back on the mattress, sweaty and flushed and lovely. it doesn't last though: When she looks at him, she's embarrassed. She can't meet his eyes.

"Sorry," she says. "That hasn't- I haven't done that in ages." Another blush. "I know you said you didn't want-"

"I liked it." And he can't lie, he did. He even feels a sense of... excitement as he realises just what this might mean. Because now that they've gotten their first orgasm out of the way, he feels calmer. Happier. More centred, less overwhelmed.

He can just touch her, or kiss her, or do lots of others things with her. He doesn't need to worry about sex.  _They_  don't need to worry about sex.

_Could his Molly get any more perfect?_

"That was amazing," he says, when she doesn't speak and he leans down. Kisses her mouth. Then each of her warm, salt-sweet breasts. Then her knees. Her throat. Each one of her pinkie toes. She laughs at this, her embarrassment disappearing, and as she does he pulls her to him. Laughs with her.

Once again he wonders how he ever went so long without having someone to laugh with in bed.

"So you thinks you can work with this?" she asks eventually, gesturing to her bare body.

Even though her eyes are merry, Sherlock can still see the vulnerability in her eyes, and once again he thinks how lucky he is, that he is not alone in all his worry.

"I think I can definitely work with this- If you can work with mine?"

And he gestures, smiling, to his own nude body.

Slowly, holding his gaze, Molly kneels. Kisses him.

She strokes her hands under his sleep-shirt, over his chest. His torso. Her fingertips dance down to follow the trail of dark hair at his cock, stroking, but though her hand comes near, it's his thigh she strokes. His hip. She kisses him again.

"Tell me what you want," she whispers. "Show me." Another, long kiss to his mouth. "Just like I promise that I'll show you."

Wordless, breathless, Sherlock kisses her. Rolls her beneath him.

The rest of the morning is spent in experimentation. Discovery. They spend so long in his room that his parents down't even ask him to leave, they just leave a breakfast tray at the door.

By the time they are ready to face the world, they've licked and sucked and kissed and caressed, and Sherlock is amazed to realise that they're only at the beginning of things.

"I love you," he whispers as he helps her dress.

"I love you too," she tells him, and then they walk downstairs to his family, hand in hand.


End file.
